Artificial Musings From an Artificial Soldier
by Maeve Leonard
Summary: Is a manufactored soul enough to bring you to Nirvana? Or do we measure it with how we love?


Heya folks. Well, I'm finally getting around to editing since, well, fan fiction.net is making all its changes. Fun for Maeve. So..yeah...this one was never reviewed..so I don't think l anyone liked it. But I'm amused by it. So here it is. Whee.   
  
3.6.00  
  
Artificial Musings From an Artificial Soldier  
  
~*I wrote this in a half an hour...because I haven't written anything. I have a serious block on all of my fan fiction. >< Sadness. So, yeah, this is a bad fic. I was just bored. It's Quatre, long after the war. He talks about loving Noin, Trowa, and Relena but I don't think I was talking about any love that would have to give me a warning. Yay. Ignore typos. I was lazy...again.*~  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine.   
  
Am I a sinner?   
  
Every night I ask myself the same question.  
  
Am I sinner?  
  
It echoes through my mind, bouncing off the walls of my head and leaking out from my ear onto whatever lover I happen to have chosen for the night.  
  
Have I a soul?  
  
I don't doubt that I have a soul. I love, I feel, I nurture...I do all these wonderful things children of a higher power weren't meant to do.   
  
But am I natural?  
  
That is my true question. I was born by unnatural means, so does that make my soul artificial? Can you program a soul? I sometimes wish I were programed. Maybe then I could explain some of the things that happened to me...  
  
Why?  
  
Why should those around me suffer? I understand why I should, for I don't have a God who can take me under his wing and say "Here. I am your sun. Grow with me." No, my God is only a shadow. An oppressive shadow who hides the life giving sun from me, and keeping me small. Small...tiny Quatre.   
  
Was I created for this?   
  
Was I meant to kill?   
  
I know I am a killer, I cannot deny that. Christians have it easy, I think. All they have to do is go into a small, black box and confess every blemish in their life. I tried to go in once, playing as a Catholic. I stepped into the box and I suddenly felt filthy. Dirty. The sins of thousands had been washed off in here...smeared on the walls. I wept. I couldn't bring myself to place my sin on the walls. I wept.   
  
Does God love me?  
  
Duo tells me that if God can find a moment to love the God of Death, then he certainly could find time to love me. Me, the artificial? Me, the doll? For all I am is a doll. A tiny, little rag doll...played with and loved as any child would a favourite toy.  
  
What happened?  
  
When was I replaced?  
  
Well, it's not to hard to replace me. That's what makes fighting so easy. No one understands but it would be so easy to create another me. My hair is locked up in some plastic bag somewhere, just waiting for the moment when I have my premature heart attack and die. Another Quatre will meander onto the scene before anyone notices I'm gone. Is it sick for me to say I'm comforted by this fact? Shouldn't I be upset?   
  
What is love?  
  
Is love this thing I find with the stranger on the street? A couple of dollars for a few moments of love? If so, then I don't like love. It's rather...unfailing. Or is love what that couple on the corner shares? The ones who wait for the bus together, hand in hand? Or is love that other couple down the street? Who argue each night over the others ones life choices? The only love I seem to be able to find is in the stranger under my arm. The stranger who whispers in my ear a stream of four letter words while I can only respond with Shakespearean sonnets. Love...  
  
Will I ever come to understand a love outside of money?  
  
Perhaps.  
  
Perhaps it's in that blue eyed soldier, strong willed and unbreakable.  
  
Perhaps in that green eyed boy, who devotes his life to the laughter of children yet never his own.  
  
Perhaps it's in that lovely Princess, who took it upon herself to become the sun for those of us who only have the shadow God.  
  
I don't understand it, why these people think that I could deserve their love. But I know I love them. I love them enough that I would never pay for them to speak a string of coarse four letter words to me. Never, never, never would I give them that sort of unfulfilling love.   
  
I love them all. And it scares me to death to think that my love may be artificial.....


End file.
